his eye down with feigned surprise. Then, in an indignant tone, “I don’t mind takin’ a fall out of yer, now, if yer like.”
Arvie went on with his work. Bill tossed all the chips within reach, and then sat carelessly watching some men at work, and whistling the “Dead March”. Presently he asked:
“What’s yer name, Balmy?”
No answer.
“Carn’t yer answer a civil question? I’d soon knock the sulks out of yer if I was yer father.”
“My name’s Arvie; you know that.”
“Arvie what?”
“Arvie Aspinall.”
Bill cocked his eye at the roof and thought a while and whistled; then he said suddenly:
“Say, Balmy, where d’yer live?”
“Jones’ Alley.”
“What?”
“Jones’ Alley.”
A short, low whistle from Bill. “What house?”
“Number Eight.”
“Garn! What yer giv’nus?”
“I’m telling the truth. What’s there funny about it? What do I want to tell you a lie for?”
“Why, we lived there once, Balmy. Old folks livin’?”
“Mother is; father’s dead.”
Bill scratched the back of his head, protruded his under lip, and reflected.
“I say, Arvie, what did yer father die of?”
“Heart disease. He dropped down dead at his work.”
